Tag: emotion

Why? Because a ton of shit happened to me during 2016. I was testing the waters of “organizing” for the first time. I attempted to work with religious communities that expressed a desire to do anti-racist work. I also struggled to find support in school from my peers and my teachers.

I experienced a lot of pain within these and many other moments in 2016. I was gaslighted by people who claimed to care about the black freedom struggle. I attended tension filled demonstrations and have been in the presence of violence. I’ve had my creative and intellectual work unfairly judged by parties who couldn’t see my work rightly. 2016 was also the year that my university’s Peace Studies department used police presence to intimidate me into compliance when I rose concerns about racism and sexism in the program’s curriculum.

2016 left me burned and wasted.

You could even say that 2016 broke my spirit. In retrospect, 2017 went a whole lot better for me, even though the first year of Trump’s presidency brought with it so much maliciousness.

I don’t know if I have yet to fully recover from what 2016 did to my mind, my body, my spirit, but most days, I expect myself to be better by now. It’s been over a whole year, after all.

I tell myself that I shouldn’t be afraid of picking up my camera, taking new clients, doing new gigs… That my fear should be gone by now. I should be better. I shouldn’t still be carrying around a fear of running into ministers and activists who hurt me deeply. I shouldn’t be carrying around the fear of running into members of other organizations and coalitions that didn’t do their part to respect me and see my rightly. But, I do.

I don’t always know what to do about these fears. I try to power through them, but it doesn’t seem like enough on the days that I can’t.

me, in the beginning of 2017 on a roadtrip.

As I work a few hours during the week, I get to enjoy roaming the isles of the library in solitude. I use this opportunity to catch up on podcasts that I’ve been wanting to listen to and I also get a chance to discover and listen to new ones as I quietly shelve books (and occasionally shed a few laughs here and there).

One of the more meaningful podcasts that I’ve been able to listen to this year has been AFFIRM, a podcast from the website Redefine Enough. Between listening to AFFIRM and taking a break from Twitter, I feel like I’ve been receiving the breath of air that I need… and will reluctantly say that I deserve.

I say reluctant, because I often forget a lot of what I say that I believe. Or, I forget to take seriously certain truths about mental health and caring for myself. I don’t always believe that the things that I whole-heartedly want for other people, I deserve as well. And so, it’s been so helpful for me to listen to the podcast and to listen to the host describe and name things that I forget or experiences I don’t always have words for.

One of the topics in the podcast that I found to be very affirming was the topic of “secondary trauma”. Essentially, secondary trauma isn’t trauma that you personally experienced, it’s trauma that you may have witnessed or trauma that you hear about. Trauma therapists and other healers often experience secondary trauma from listening to people’s stories and witnessing their pain.

I’m a person that typically listens with enthusiasm… but I’ve noticed my capacity to listen growing less and less. I have noticed within my body the desire to retreat into my own personal space. My capacity to hold others has shrunk. I often fear that this has meant that I have grown to be less big-hearted, less caring. I think to myself that I must be selfish now (which is the worst thing to be if you’ve grown up being told your worth is defined by how well or how much you care for others). However, the podcast reminded me that secondary trauma is still trauma. It makes sense for me to be tired after listening to others share their own pain. It makes sense for me to not always have the capacity to listen to others if I myself am in a dark place.

The podcast also affirmed a lot of my own experiences and struggles with mental health and anxiety. Within the last year, I’ve struggled to leave my house and have felt the kind of tiredness that lingers and overstays her welcome.

I believe now that my body has been shutting down… it’s been telling me that I need help, that I need to find healing and care. I couldn’t see the messages that my body was giving me: the lack of energy, the inability to leave home, the lack of excitement that I found sitting on my chest when I woke up in the mornings… I couldn’t understand the messages my body was giving me because I couldn’t find affirmation from myself or from many others that I was carrying a lot and that a lot was hurting me. In my mind, I downplayed everything. But, between Twitter drama, racism, sexism, biphobia, spiritual abuse, family trauma, rejection, life-changes, loss, flashbacks — all of it was affecting me. And most of it still affects me.

There were days when flashbacks made it difficult for me to leave the house. I would feel the emotions of the flashbacks hit my body right before placing my hand on the door. I’d find myself winded from the pain of those memories and needing to recover from the flashback. Then I would be late for something. And then, I couldn’t tell anyone about why I was late, because we don’t talk about mental health in our society well. Not in activist spaces, not in church… many spaces still hold stigmas, discomfort or general cluelessness around mental health.

Listening to women of color affirm each other’s mental and emotional health is doing something to me. I don’t know if I can call it “healing” necessarily but it’s encouraging me enough to get out of bed and to feel like I can do something about my anxiety and depression. The women on the podcast are reminding me that I deserve rest and care. They are reminding me that my trauma and pain matter, that the world’s bigotry, interpersonal messiness and systematic injustices affect me because I am human. They are reminding me that my trauma and pain won’t just just go away overnight. Trauma doesn’t just magically disappear. Healing and care has to happen.

Thankfully, I am in a place where I am seeking therapeutic support. I’m also trying to take advantage of this slower time of my life by making sure that I fight for my care time. I want to enjoy this life. I want to be happy. I want to have meaningful relationships, and I want to be filled with purpose and love when I do my work.

I think I deserve that.

A few of my favorite personal affirmations:

Rest is as important as work. Rest makes magic that work can’t do.

What I went through is real. I am not weak for feeling pain from my past, no matter how far back. I matter, my pain matters, and I deserve to have my pain attended to and healed. I deserve to be cared for and loved.

I deserve to be celebrated and respected in my work.

I have enough faith for today. I am spiritual/religious/Christian enough even if others can’t see it because of their religious boxes. I don’t have to do more to prove it.

I deserve to be celebrated, loved and respected in a religious community.

I have a lot to offer and to give, even when I don’t always feel like it.

Please check out AFFIRM podcast if you get a chance, especially if you are a woman of color. Also, AFFIRM should not take the place of real therapeutic help. I grew up being afraid of therapy and being taught that it was bad and meant something was “wrong” with me. If you are intimidated or scared of therapy, I’m always willing to talk to you. AFFIRM is great about addressing fears about mental health and reaching out to a therapist.

Not just any of the Psalms. The dark ones. The sad ones. The ones heavy with lament and questioning.

I have always been one to gravitate towards sadness. Instead of running from my emotions, I wade through them. I’ve listened to music thick with emotion for most of my life, from the R&B of my younger years, to the metal-core of my adolescence. Unlike the white boys who dominate heavy musical genres such as metal, much of my sadness is connected to my experience in the world as someone silenced because of the identities I embody. When I read the Scriptures, I find my sadness reflected back to me in the words of the Psalmists, as well as with other books in the Bible that navigate the waters of heavy emotion.

When I read the Psalms, I find a container for my sadness as a black girl. A queer black woman. Someone living within the margins, rendered invisible by intersecting systems of oppression. Someone living with depression and anxiety. Someone estranged and struggling to make peace with her mother and father. Someone who passionately loves God but at times feels failed by God.

Life within a racist and sexist society has made it that I often feel that no one sees or cares what I am going through. Often, it can feel as though my sadness is only seen by the Psalmists. It comforts me to know that there has existed a community of people before me with such complex feeling about their experiences in the world, and their relationship with God. It is liberating to know that I am allowed to feel these things as a Christian, and that my feelings are even canon, for what that’s worth.

A peer of mine recently told me that there are no citations for Psalm 44. As someone who lives so regularly with sadness this surprised me that others have not written about this Psalm. Psalm 44 is a difficult Psalm with a voice that sounds resentful, perhaps betrayed.

Though it may seem like a sign or lack of faithfulness to God to live in deep feelings of lament, anger, doubt and sadness, I’d argue that it’s not. We are reminded that Jesus, the main example of our Christian faith, was a man of great sorrows himself, deeply despised by many and experiencing complicated emotions such as rage and distress and doubt throughout his ministry on Earth.

Jesus knows this black girl sadness. Jesus understands this black girl despair –this despair that looms over me when injustice towards Nabra, Philando Castille, Charleena and many unnamed people happen all in the same week. Jesus sees this black girl rage.

Christ sees your sadness, despair and rage, too. And Christ does not run from it.

It is said that we cannot fully experience joy if we are not willing to embrace sadness. So often, the mainstream (read: white) church runs away from lament. Jesus, too, is removed from his accounts of lamentation, with narratives of a victorious Jesus dominating the American church’s liturgies and hymnals. The powerful within the Church seem afraid of these raw emotions. So much so that they leave Psalms like Psalm 44 without commentary.

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#BlackGirlPsalms is about community– community created through the vulnerability of lament, of expressing despair and dissatisfaction with the unjust world, with a hungry and gruesome empire, and with the apathy of those who claim to love us. It is important for those associated with darkness to interpret the Psalms.

May you find community in sharing your grief. In sharing your rage. May your grief serve a purpose and not be consumed by the gaze of power. May you find a God who cares. And may you also find a people and a Church that will hold you in this grief, so that you may be delivered towards a more faithful embodiment in the world. May #BlackGirlPsalms provide such a space.